


The Would-Be Wives of Bath Tale

by owlbsurfinbird



Series: The Cambridge Tales [5]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Bachelorette Party, College, Embarrassment, Gen, Keeping One's Dignity, Lewis Summer Challenge 2014, Mean young women, Mention of sex toys, Things Not Taught in School, summer job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-10 23:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is the unwitting victim of a mean trick and suffers some embarrassment, but quickly recovers and learns something about himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Would-Be Wives of Bath Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the_small_hobbit for Brit-pick, beta-read and suggestions!

**The Hen Party**

**Cambridge, 1997**

**From the brochure: Treat your hen to a guided tour of the Backs sipping bubbly along the way. A great start or end to your hen night or weekend…**

"You've been selected," said Paul, grinning.

"That sounds ominous," James slathered sunscreen on his arms and neck.

"You were spotted yesterday and they want you, only you, to do their tour today."

James stopped rubbing. "Who? Teachers? Please tell me it's a group of teachers."

"Better. It's a hen party."

"Excuse me?"

Paul's eyes were as wide as his grin. "Yeah, Lord Jim, you have been chosen to guide a group of young ladies celebrating their friend's last night as a single woman."

"No, definitely not." James bit his lower lip, looked at the floor, and shook his head. "Find someone who would enjoy that—find anyone—" He looked up, blushing furiously. "—Find anyone other than me. I am not good with women."

"But they wanted you." Paul said, gleefully. "The tall, good-looking blond bloke with the—oh, how did she put it—cultured, deep, romantic baritone voice."

James steeled himself. "No."

"Not like they're going to offer you up on a sacrificial altar, man. It's balloons, a bit of champagne, and a boatload of people" he emphasized the last word, "Out from Bath to have a good time on the river. If it helps you, think of them as teachers. Some of them might be."

As it turned out, there were two teachers in the group, one of whom was the bride to be. All of them wore tiny black dresses and all of them were drunk before they climbed on board with bottles of champagne and gift bags bursting with tissue.

The balloons were lavender, silver, and black and looked festive trailing the stern. It was an evening wedding, he was told. Black berets were distributed, including one for him, since the happy couple was going to Paris for their honeymoon. And would he mind, terribly, putting on this lavender t-shirt so that they could get pictures of him with the group later on? Thank you so much.

He turned his back to them to strip out of the shirt he was wearing and there were instant protests.

"Turn around, we won't bite!"

"Oh, please, this is almost the twenty-first century!"

"How can you be self-conscious with a body like that?" 

He turned around, shirtless, blushing furiously, cameras and camcorders recording his slow, resigned turn, the shy ducking of his head as he quickly tugged on the t-shirt and donned the ridiculous beret. 

He pushed off, and started on his usual spiel, which lasted through the first round of champagne (which he declined), and then, as he passed the Magdalene Bridge, he was shushed so that they could open gifts.

James wasn't sure what he was expecting—tea cozies and wine glasses, perhaps--not black lingerie, furry handcuffs or sex toys. It bothered him more than he cared to admit, that he didn't know what some of the items were, let alone what they might be used for. 

He wasn't worldly, but he knew what was going on in the rooms next to his at college, and he had a pretty clear idea that 'get the lube!' had nothing at all to do with bicycle maintenance. 

"That goes where, exactly?" asked one of the party-goers, holding the item up so that all of the passing punters could see it.

"Ask your poleman!" shouted one bloke from the punt opposite.

James' eyes grew wide and he gave a minute 'I don't know, don't ask me' shrug, his face flaming. He was startled when someone's camera flash went off capturing both his fascinated curiosity and embarrassment. 

"So, James. Tell us. What are you reading?"

"Theology." He regretted the words the instant they passed his lips. He stood taller, gathering his dignity. "I plan to be a priest."

Dead silence.

The boat drifted lazily past the murmured conversations of the other punts. The air around them quiet, calm.

The party-goers stared at one another, wondering what to do, what to say. 

"Holy shit," offered the woman who had said he was self-conscious. "What a waste. I think we need another round." 

"We've toasted Keira, I think we should toast James for—" she looked at her friends. "What is appropriate—"

"We blasted way past appropriate, like, a butt plug ago. I think we should just drink and try not to think about it."

"To James, then. Because he is patient."

"And nice. He was nice, you know, about the shirt thing. Does this mean we won't get to do the thing with the pole—"

"Shhh. And because he is obviously intelligent and willing to forgive."

The woman nodded, and poured him another glass of champagne. "Well, since we're almost out of champagne, let's take a couple of photos of the group, okay?"

Another women set up her camera on a small tripod on the bottom of the boat for group shots: James in the center, back, and the party around him. 

They took paired shots, women on either side of him as he held on to the pole, keeping the punt in place. 

Then more champagne.

Then, to get the pole out of the way, he was persuaded to put it between his legs and with a young lady sitting in front of him, also straddling the pole. 

There was more champagne.

And more photos. 

Until a fellow punter poled over to James, placed a foot on the punt and leaned in. "James," he said very quietly, "Take a good look at where that pole is, where the young lady is, and how it looks like a naughty bit sticking straight up between your legs like that." He clapped a horrified James on the back.

He'd had no idea. It never entered his mind that someone would play that kind of dirty trick on him.

"Sorry," said the bride to be, as James ended the tour abruptly, completely mortified. "It's just—you know, hen party." She gave him an envelope and an apologetic smile.

He opened the envelope as he walked back to the office, noting that it had been sealed, opened, and resealed. He sighed, wondering if he'd blown his gratuity by not playing along, and not caring because his dignity was far more important.

He'd never been so embarrassed in his entire life. 

Two twenties, several folded notes, and a few crumpled scraps of paper dropped to the ground—he picked them up. 

He was holding one hundred and thirty-eight pounds. And two telephone numbers.

Paul looked up as he entered the tiny storefront they used as an office. "And?" 

"Never again. Not worth it."


End file.
